


Where Are My Wings But in You

by misha_collins_butt



Series: I Knew I Loved You [12]
Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Angel!Castiel, Blood for tw????, Cake, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Snogging, beebs, dean n cas, destiel smut, holy fucking hell, i don't think people read these but, im a smartass so that's probably a good thing, in the bathtub, injured!Cas, le peens, the sexies, ◉‿◉
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5486579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas's low grace is kinda pissing everyone off, especially because he won't listen to Dean about not using it to heal himself. Of course, why not kiss aggressively when Cas finally fucking makes a move. Good job protecting your heterosexuality, Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Are My Wings But in You

**Author's Note:**

> Totally not American-picked, most definitely not beta'd
> 
> It's kind of not what I want it to be because I've not actually written in some time but I'm going to shove it down your throat anyway. Or up your ass. Whichever oraface you prefer.

"Ready? One. Two," Dean touches the wet washcloth to Cas's cheekbone and Cas sucks in air between his teeth.

"You said you were counting to three!" Cas's brows hang low over his piercing eyes, and Dean suppresses his smile.

"Better if I don't," he replies, dabbing along the cut to get out any dirt and debris, other hand coming up to stretch the skin wider so he can really get in there. "Stop moving," he laughs.

In reality, he's still shaking. He can almost see the bone. He nearly vomited when he watched that fucking bear-spider-human hybrid thing claw open Cas's face, which, mind you, he would never admit.

Dean sits with his legs apart on the toilet lid across from Cas who sits at the edge of the tub, ratty trench coat, black blazer, and white work shirt discarded in the corner - along with that disgusting striped tie Dean's never had the courage to diss in front of Cas.

"So is this what you and Sam used to do?"

"Mm?" 

"When you got hurt. Just...put water on the wound and wait for it to heal?"

Dean shifts on the toilet seat, cuts through the handprint on his left arm burning, his own t-shirt and flannel flung into the nearest washing machine on his way in, to which Sam had rolled his eyes and Castiel and so inadvertently let his own do a bit of warranted roaming.

He shrugs.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean," he pauses, adding more water and ringing it out over the sink. "Unless we needed a cast or stitches, then we used cleaning alcohol." Cas cocks a brow, finger fiddling with the hem of his white t-shirt. "Or whatever booze John had around at the moment."

This gets a thicker reaction, two brown hills rising over Cas's pools of blue.

"You never worried about them getting infected?"

Dean smirks at the irony of his immediate reaction thought to that.

"Ever heard of having a little faith, Cas?"

A soft chuckle rumbling from the angel's chest. Shoulders shifting, eyelids sinking down.

"I still don't understand why you won't just let me heal my--"

"Not happening, angel," Dean doesn't wait to hear that argument - the same one the winged asshole barfed up the entire ride back to this stupid bunker. Not even a moment to breathe between each excuse to use his low grace instead of Dean just fixing it.

Of course, Cas ended up humouring him because he might not be a pro at puppy eyes but he's persuasive in an argument he already knows he'll win.

And Cas really isn't that hard to cajole when it comes to what Dean wants to do.

If it makes Dean happy, Cas may hesitate but he'll come through in the end. Of course, this has left Dean feeling rather guilty at times but that's something he doesn't care to dwell upon.

Anyway, the winning argument stands: he's low on juice. Recharging is paramount. Him using it to heal a measly baby boo boo isn't going to help anyone or anything.

"Speaking of stitches," Dean mutters, examining the wide laceration.

Cas' head whips around, eyes humongous and pale in the fluorescents of the bathroom, as Dean turns to dig through the cabinet. He pulls out the tin box of gauze and medical scissors and sports tape and whatever other emergency items they may ever need, and turns back without giving Cas's face a second glance.

"Dean, no," Cas inserts a stern whisper to his tone, to which Dean doesn't react because it's Cas, and, though the angel could smite him with a glance, he wouldn't even think about doing something like that to Dean.

"Cas, the cut is huge. I can see your bone, I'm not--"

"And I'm not letting you put a needle near my face."

Dean drops his hands into the container with not so much as an outward sigh and switches his attention upward with a derisive glare that speaks volumes of condescending douchery, but has been known to put entire leather-out-the-whazoo, gruff bearded, bitter-beered motorcycle gangs in their place.

"You aren't leaving this room until there are seven stitches in your cheek," Dean whispers, watching Cas shrink back.

"Duly noted," Cas mumbles, eyes on his finger at the bottom of his shirt. Dean almost heeds pity. Almost.

"Don't worry," Dean adds, voice a gentle breeze through a stale car at midnight. "It doesn't actually hurt nearly as much is it might seem."

Cas offers up his left cheek, spacing off to the right as Dean lifts his hand to the damaged flesh. Cas flinches away and Dean purses his lips inward, a laugh struggling its way up his throat.

"I haven't even touched you yet," Dean whispers, smile blooming at the edges of his lips. Cas huffs and begrudgingly moves back to let Dean sew him up. "Now just," Dean's voice falters as he brings his hand up, hesitates, fingers tingling with giddy fear, and he presses his hand against Cas's other cheek as he continues, "Don't move."

Dean pricks the needle just past his skin.

"Okay. Promise I'll make it to three this time," the hunter's fingers gently move, almost unnoticeably, across Cas's cheek. "One, two, three."

He pushes the needle through the skin and muscle, through the fucking canyon of a cut, and up through the other side.

Cas's eyes are screwed shut.

"See? Not so bad."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one being stabbed with a needle," Cas grunts, eyes melting open slowly. They find Dean's beaming face, not looking back into the night of Cas's pupils.

"I'm not stabbing you, drama queen," he replies, tying it off and snipping the rest. There's a long rope of a silence, fashioning itself into a noose above them, slithering and dry like a snake, until Dean cuts through it with a softer voice. "Guess I forgot how the first time is the worst. Been so long."

Castiel pauses, and Dean can feel his eyes, his ironically angel-esque eyes, skipping across his face.

"When was the first time you got stitches?"

Dean pushes his lips out, sliding the needle through Cas' flinching skin again.

"Think I was...ten? Maybe eleven," he snips the suture and threads the needle again. "Vampire got me right across the back of my thigh. Still got a scar." He looks up, finally meeting Cas's scrutinising gaze. "Pretty hot, ya ask me."

Cas's rarely bestowed smile glistens, white teeth a blessing from the fucking heavens, hallelujah.

 _Amen_ , Dean snarks to himself, nearly says it under his breath and thinks better.

"You ever need stitches before, golden boy?" Dean asks through lifted lips.

Castiel's eyes shift up to the ceiling, as if looking to his father for the answer.

"Well, I...vaguely recall Jimmy needing three when he cut his hand on a kitchen knife at the age of eight but," Cas drops his gaze again to his lap and shakes his head just enough to make Dean pull the needle back so as not to actually jab him the eye. "No, I've never needed stitches while inhabiting a vessel. Being a...celestial being and all."

That last part was so ardently saracastic that Dean nearly snorts at the effort the other man put into it.

"My skin's clean," Cas continues, eyes catching on Dean's, who's given the stitches a rest for now, just holding the towel to Cas's cheek. "Save for a few scars from Jimmy's years before me."

"Well, not really your skin, Cas," Dean's brows knit together and he lifts the towel, picking the needle up again and sewing the fifth stitch.

Cas seems confused by this, eyes trained on Dean's, which are unresponsive due to his disappointment and resentment of the 'consent' thing because if that wasn't a problem, he totally would've slammed this bastard into a wall and kissed him pink and red and bruised years ago.

"No, Dean. It's mine, now. Not on purpose, but the...I suppose, fortunate and unfortunate fact is that Jimmy is in heaven now," Cas goes quiet, an audible gulp, the rustling of his hands twisting in his shirt, Dean cutting the excess thread. "Without me, this vessel is...well, dead." Castiel looks to the skies again, hands going limp and numb in his lap, head leaning further and further into Dean's gentle touch. "Suppose I'm more human than I thought. Just a...ball of energy inside a meatsuit."

Dean's fingers give out on him and he drops his hand, not breaking his eye contact with the gash through his angel's skin. Then, a faint smile, eyes twitching to Cas's, which, in turn, drop to his.

"Sexy one, though," Dean elaborates, grin bright as a full moon strung up between the stars that are his freckles. He turns back, not enough energy to lift the needle again.

"I don't...see how a ball of energy--"

"Not that, you idiot," a short laugh, fingers absently stroking Cas's cheek. Stop. What are you doing. "The...'meatsuit'." Dean mimicks Cas' slightly more gravelly tone, at which the angel frowns in delicate annoyance. Dean's smile only floods his face, teeth ambient with the biting white of the buzzing lights overhead.

Cas's frown lifts into a reluctant smile.

"Only one more," Dean says puncturing the skin a last time.

"Kind of forgot I was being tortured for a minute," Castiel responds with nothing but resolute censure in his voice and a shit-eating lift of the corner of his lips. "Still don't know why--"

Dean grabs the other side of Cas's face, smushing his lips together and forcing Cas to look him directly in the eye.

"Listen to me, you ignorant shit," Dean speaks deliberately, albeit, gingerly, as to not frighten thy neighbour. "I am not letting you do that to yourself because you need to heal. Don't...argue again."

Dean releases Cas's face, flies through the last stitch then turns back to throw the needle.

He feels a pressure on the hand in his lap and twists back at neck-break speed to catch Cas's fingers spread over his own.

The angel looks up with deer-in-headlight eyes and drops his head, hand recoiling.

"Cas?" Dean asks, voice cracking as he turns all the way back to watch the other man.

"I just...wanted to try something," Cas breathes, head hanging.

Dean simply blinks, shakes his head, turns back to the medical box on the ground beside the toilet.

"Dean?" Cas's voice drifts dry and unsure across the air after a long pause and Dean turns back, brows jumping to his hairline.

"Yeah?"

"I have a question."

"Uh," Dean slowly twists back to find the cloth to sterilise the scissors. "Yeah, shoot."

Hesitation. Anxiety welling in Dean's stomach, a pinching, squeezing claw around his guts, cutting off blood flow.

"Do...do you love me?"

"Uuuh," Dean chuckles awkwardly, rather put off by the sudden revelation of the question that he's been asking himself for several years. "I mean," what's the best way to avoid? Avoid, detract from the awkward. "Yeah, I guess, man. We've been friends for a--"

"No."

Dean stops dead in his tracks. So this is it. This is really, actually the true question. The one he's been dreading because, God-fucking-damnit, it's true.

He turns back slowly, eyes finding Cas's, lips falling open in momentary speechlessness.

He raises his head in a half nod. Grunts a "huh".

He can't speak. He can't breathe. He can't think, he can't move. He's near tears and trembling beneath his own skin, ready to jump out and disappear beneath the door.

His eyes never leave Cas's. He swallows air.

Goes back to repacking the box.

He can hear Cas's head dropping. The angel stands and Dean looks up in regret.

"Hey, wait where are you--"

Castiel pauses in front of the open door, not looking back, hands fisting, head down. His demeanour is demur and hunched, unthreatening in every way.

Dean pushes the box back as he stands. He glides over, nearly tripping over his own boots. He blanches at the fact that he scuttles up right into Cas's space but hey do it all the time, what's the difference now.

"Hey," softer, like a balloon of warm breath being set free onto the waves of a lake. "Hey, look at me--"

"I've made a mistake."

Dean is silent, eyes becoming entranced by the lines and patterns in Castiel's skin, the coarseness of his eyebrows hung low over his sagging eyes, heavy with tears.

"Are you crying?"

"Let me go."

"Hey, no," Dean's hand develops its own mind and lifts to Cas's chin, pushing it up. "Let's sit down and talk about this, okay?"

Cas' eyes don't meet his, but a small nod indicates hesitant agreement, and they return to their previous seats.

Dean watches him for a moment and goes back to shoving the gauze aside to make room for the scissors. He closes the box, latches it, then stares at its beige tin, hands coming to rest at its edges.

"The answer is yes," he whispers, and when Cas doesn't respond, he twists back to shove the box into the cupboard.

When he turns back, he braves the assignment of lifting his eyes to Cas's face, which he finds contorted with a mixture of shock and something like hope, eyes glistening.

"It's always been yes," his breath is shallow and his head is heavy, a lead weight on his frail shoulders. Maybe he's drowning. Maybe he's already dead. And wouldn't that be an improvement over the gut wrenching fear that's dragging its nails across his heart right now.

His eyes, set so abidingly on Cas's eyes, fearlessly fall to his lips for a split second before he looks away again.

Nobody says anything, and he wants to cry and laugh at the same time. God, he wants to break down in hysterics, pull Cas down with him, then kiss him senseless on the disgusting floor of this stupid, disgusting bunker, next to that disgusting blue and yellow tie, and he wants to fall disgustingly, incorrigibly in love with this fucking asshat he calls a friend.

"Dean?"

He doesn't answer.

Doesn't stop Cas, train of thought full steam ahead.

Toot-fucking-toot.

"I assume you don't mind me asking another question."

Dean closes his eyes, brows dancing over them, as he says, "Ask away."

"Would you...I mean...will you..." Cas peters out, and he gives in, hands crawling across Dean's, which don't fucking hesitate to lace with Cas's fingers. Dean watches his own hands betray him, listens to the shaky breath that Cas drags in. "Can I kiss you?"

Dean's eyes meander their way up to Cas', where they land as unresponsive, listless orbs floating in a pool of unshed tears and repressed urges and years of want and need and musthavenow pent up.

Pause.

Dean swallows, tugging at Cas' hand.

Pause.

He inches closer, and so does Cas, and every single dust particle, every atom, every sound, is still around them, waiting, watching.

Pause.

Dean's heart is pounding out a fucking love song in his chest as his forehead touches Cas's.

He pushes forward, lips nearly touching. Pauses. Pulls back, just a little, so unsure. Unwilling to break his mask, to shatter this brick wall he's built and bled on, stone by stone, over the years. 

He pushes forward again, attaching their lips, just barely. A chaste kiss. And then another.

And then he slots his lips with Cas's, who's nervous hands twist in Dean's. This is gentle, this is graceful, this is...natural. Their lips move together, slow and peaceful, Dean's hand escaping Cas's death grip to comb up through the unruly dark brown bed head behind Cas's ear.

It builds, and builds, and Dean's remembering how to breathe and he thought there would be fireworks but it feels like they've done this every day for the past hundred years, as if they've kissed each other a thousand times, and it's overwhelming and life-affirming and Cas tastes like the purple wine of midnight and the grey mountains in Russia and the lightning between two dead trees in August and the soft pink of the first cherry blossom in spring and the quivering dew on the edge of a blade of grass after a mid-summer thunderstorm and God, he tastes like magic and beauty and love and truth and light and dark and night and day and sunshine and moon-dust and--

They falls back into the tub, Dean landing on top of Cas with a thud and Cas's laugh cut off as Dean elbows his stomach.

Dean laughs too, and Cas sounds like the golden harp he plays up on the clouds and Dean's lips find Cas's again, and they laugh as they kiss, and they kiss harder, harder, lips opening, tongues pressing and waltzing and mapping out even the darkest corners of each other's mouths, each other's souls. 

A shiver slams up Dean's spine, as Cas's hands skim up to his waist, holding him still with an arched back on top of the angel.

Dean fumbles with the hem of Cas's t-shirt, but fits his fingers beneath the fabric and pushes his hands up across Cas' fucking sculpture-perfect abs (and what the hell, how had he never noticed). The shirt bunches around his wrists and across Cas's chest, where they pause as Cas lifts his arms and Dean pulls it off and throws it over his shoulder without precaution.

Warm skin against skin, sticking with sweat, and the tingles return to Dean's fingers at the feeling of them breathing together in passion and soft touch, lips like key and lock, meant to be pressed together in a century old bathtub under the luminescent buzz of an ancient light, musty scent of soap and sweat and hair between breaths.

Dean's lips make a great escape across Cas's jaw, his neck, down over his collarbone, back up, carving his name into this angel's body, this time without blood, without stabbing him or beating him half to death; this time with gentle bruises and bites, pleading apologies and sighing regret across his skin, begging for forgiveness for the things he's done and said.

Castiel's moan in reply is all he needs to dare him to bite lower, perpetually moving lips never leaving skin to find Cas's nipple, sucking softly, hands ghosting his ribs. Buck of Cas's hips and fingernails digging graves in Dean's skin.

"Dean, wait," Cas breathes suddenly, hands squeezing Dean's sides. He pulls away, crawling back up to level his gaze.

"What?" Dean replies, breathless, searching Cas's moon-wide pupils, before realisation dawns. "You've never done it with a guy." He sits back, denim scraping his erection.

Cas's eyebrows sink down and he blinks, shaking his head, skull rolling against the hardened acrylic of the tub.

"Wh-no, no. I just..." He exhales slowly, hands slipping up over Dean's bare back as his eyes drop to Dean's chest. "Are you sure? About this?" The Egyptian blue rings around his pupils find Dean's face again.

Dean only stares, stars of astonishment reshaping his own lust-blown eyes.

"You've...done the do with a guy?" He nearly shivers with excitement at the thought of Cas kissing down his sternum, his stomach, licking into his navel, lower, lower, until his lips wrap around Dean's cock and--

"Why does this surprise you?" Cas's voice is sharp, puncturing his train if thought.

"Well I just...I guess thought you were..." Dean trails off, unsure, kind of asking Cas to say it in his head so he doesn't have to say it out loud in the case that he may have been completely, utterly, embarrassingly wrong.

"What, straight?" Castiel laughs, full-bellied, smile gleaming. "Dean, I'm a genderless orb of celestial intent. I have no preference, and I certainly have not always had male vessels." Dean's eyebrows curve up over his eyes. "Of course, mind you, even when I was inhabiting a male vessel it was not uncommon of me to--"

"I'm still hung up on the fact that you're not a...virgin," Dean cuts in before Cas can give him any ideas. "I mean, I know you're not...I just - God, okay, what I mean--"

Cas chuckles, hand cupping the back of Dean's neck and tugging him down, lips gentle touching his.

"I guess we both know what we're getting ourselves into, then," Cas breathes through a smile against Dean's lips, eyes closed. His kiss is teasing, and Dean chases his taste as he pulls back.

"You know what I think is a great idea? Why don't we both shut up, and you let me fuck you into this stupid bath tub," Dean offers, attacking Cas' lips faster than the angel can blurt out the response muffled by Dean's mouth.

Castiel sighs in good-old Castiel fashion, but his fingers twisting in Dean's dirt-soaked hair suggest he's most definitely on board with this.

Hips rolling, breath faltering, Dean's dick leads his every move as he sits up, trembling fingers unbuttoning Cas's slacks, pulling down the zipper, shoving them down past Cas's impressive fucking cock, and sitting up so Cas can kick them off the rest of the way.

"You know," Cas breathes, Dean catching his lips in another kiss between these words and the next. "A bath tub-" kiss "-isn't exactly the most comfortable place for this."

"You are not zapping us to your room," Dean's voice is raw and helpless and needy as he reaches between them to unbuckle his belt and pull it through the loops and chuck it across the room where it bangs against the wall and clatters to the floor. "Now shut the fuck up and let me kiss you."

Cas obliges, sitting up and meeting Dean half-way as he falls back into Cas's chest, hands bracketing his cheeks as he pushes Cas back down.

Eagerly requited moans echo through the linoleum tiled room, and Dean finds his jeans with the little brain activity he's got left to undo the button and unzip the zipper and undress himself in general and holy shit he forgot he went commando today because he's not bothered to throw his pants in the wash within the last probably month, now.

He doesn't hesitate, though, to drop the heavy denim over the side of the tub and grind his hips down.

"Holy shit," Cas gasps, lips breaking from Dean's, which simply find more skin to mark as his own. "Holy shit, Dean."

He's never heard Cas swear like this. He's never heard this tone of voice, greedy and pleading for more, dripping with anxiety and want. And, oh, God, he needs this angel. He needs to touch and be touched and fuck it all that he doesn't care how or where as long as Cas's hands are on him and Cas's words are in his ear.

"Boxers. Off," Dean breathes, suddenly the only two words in his vocabulary, as he lifts himself out of Cas's lap so he can push them down and kick them off at the end of the tub.

And - oh dear God Mary mother of Jesus - he sits back down and he has to take a second to catch his breath as he keels over, forehead coming to a sweaty rest against Cas's chest as his hips writhe of their accord.

Cas is spewing curses like he's getting paid to do it and Dean is just trying to get a hold of himself as his cock drags across Cas's and the angel's fingers dig into Dean's ass.

They wander lower, and lower, and suddenly, Cas' middle finger is lingering over Dean's hole and he's gasping out and pushing back against it and, Jesus fuck, it's dry but he doesn't care, doesn't care and Cas teases with just the tip and Dean nearly fucks back into it but there's no way that is happening without some sort of lube.

Dean's lips press into the hinge of Cas's jaw and he breathes, "I need you, Cas." Rolls his hips, cocks bouncing and sticking together. "Please."

"Are you sure?" Back into his own ear, whisper of Castiel's lips against his stubble, teeth grazing his earlobe.

"Yes, dear God, Cas, yes."

Hips moving, circling, and his fucking heart is racing and so is Cas' and they're beating together, pounding against each other.

A nip just below Dean's ear and suddenly Cas's fingers are slick and cold, pressing against his hole.

A moan lets itself escape through his lips to be caressed by the still air around them.

Shit, the door is wide open and what's to stop Sam--

No. He's not gonna think about that. That's...just no.

Dean pushes harder back onto Cas's finger and it slides in, and something resembling a groan and a gasp seizes his throat as he arches back and rolls down into Cas's hand.

His lips hang open, eyelids sinking closed over his dilated pupils.

He feels Cas sit up beneath him, and the finger inside him dives even further in, and he happily sinks down onto it, entire body twitching when it skims just over his prostate.

Dean's head drops to Cas's shoulder, where his lips mumble senseless ramblings into Cas's heated skin.

"Lay back for me," Cas whispers, and, without telling his body to do so, Dean abides, falling back into the other side of the slightly cramped tub.

But you better believe he doesn't go unrewarded because as soon as he's laid out across the hard surface, Cas lifts his legs, hangs them over either side of the tub, and slips another finger in alongside the first, and JesusJosephandMary, Dean's hips arc upward into Cas's fingers, grinding down into them, mouth wide open, strangled sounds and muffled gasps echoing out from his throat.

And suddenly there's a fucking tongue pressing in with them, and Cas's other hand is holding him up by the hip, and Dean's pretty sure he ripped one of the stitches in his arm and he's bleeding on the nice white acrylic finish but he simply cannot bring himself to give two flying fucks about it because Cas is fucking eating him out, with the door wide open, in a bathtub, with two fingers up his ass.

Nope, not a care in the world.

That's why, when Cas's tongue leaves his hole, and he substitutes it with another finger, and his lips are suddenly brushing the tip of Dean's cock, Dean doesn't even try to suppress the moan that rips from his chest.

But Cas doesn't close his lips over Dean's cock.

Instead, when Dean looks down, that fucker - that little bastard - is watching his own fingers slide in and out of Dean's hole, throbbing with pleasure and a little pain.

And then those goddamn fingers slam into his prostate and he's pushing so far up off the floor of the tub, he thinks he just may break his spine. And those goddamn fingers just keep pressing into that golden spot and Dean is losing his fucking head and Cas pauses inside Dean and hooks his fingers and just. Fucking. Massages that spot. And Dean is panting, can't fucking catch his breath or find his marbles or coalesce a cohesive sentence, and he's fucking down on those fingers and he's " _Jesus fucking Christ, Cas, stop, just-fuck, oh my god, please, just stop, stop" as he rolls his hips into the press_ ure, tipping just past the edge of painful.

Cas comes to a pause and Dean breathes hard, almost sure he's having a heart attack.

And Castiel's voice is next to his ear in a fraction of a second and he's asking, "You okay?"

Nod nod.

"Want me to stop?"

Vehement head shaking.

"I thought you were the one that was going to be fucking me into this bathtub."

More head shaking and a roll of the hips, a plea to shut up and keep going.

Dean feels the swell of Cas's cheek as the angel smiles, and then the fingers are receding and Dean is whining at the emptiness he feels. That is, before the blunt head of Cas's cock is pressing past the ring of muscle and into his hole and he's rocking slowly into Dean and Dean is struggling to discern real life from pure heavenly grace as Cas's capable arm wraps around his waist and lifts him into the angel's lap.

Dean rolls up and down a few times, gyrating his hips before sliding up and slamming down in an entire second Big Bang where white and red and purple and green explode at the corners of Dean's eyes and in the centre sits a singular star, and he forgets the name of it for a moment before he remembers that it's an angel. Named Cas. From heaven. And his dick is inside of Dean right now. Probably the farthest thing from holy.

But, damn, does it feel right to have Cas moaning and growling in his ear, to be bouncing on Cas's swelling cock, to be latching his teeth onto Cas's neck so he doesn't fucking scream at the sensation of soaring through outer space, tearing through the darkest corners of the universe without remorse or sorrow or anything but a warrior's curiosity to hold him back.

There are no words, only sounds with colours in this world; skin against skin is bright red and tan striped and breathless moans are deep cadet blue with magenta dots and lips sliding together are bright fuchsia like the heated passion of the sun kissing a rose.

There is no up or down or right or wrong and Castiel's wings seem to be encasing them in a feathery waterfall and Dean is so close to coming and he's gone almost completely untouched.

"Dean," Cas gasps, and Dean knows he's close too and, God, all he wants now is to watch Cas's face as he comes inside him, and he might get to. "Dean, Dean, Dean." Like a prayer sparkling across a lonely church, so holy is this one word, this one name. "Dean, I-oh, God, slow down. Dean."

He rolls his hips hard against Cas's and suddenly Cas is digging blunt nails into his back, scraping them down - Dean's sure he's drawing blood - and letting his head drop to Dean's shoulder as his cock jerks inside of Dean and he comes undone, unraveling himself into Dean's body, lips wet and hot against Dean's chest, upper lip dragging down as Dean slides back up and comes down again.

Cas's gentle hands calm Dean's hips, and his eyes catch on Dean's as one of them wraps around Dean's cock, and at the first drag up, Dean's jaw is coming unhinged and he's staring Cas in the eye as thick white ropes spurt up onto his chest and stomach.

"Holy fuck," Dean breathes, forehead coming to rest against Cas's, eyelids falling down over his exhausted eyes. "Holy fuck."

Lips find his in a languid kiss, lapping at his bottom lip like it's holy fucking water in the Holy fucking Grail.

"You mean that literally or?" Cas remarks against Dean's mouth and Dean grins, shoving him in the chest.

"You're piece of work," he snarls, nipping Castiel's lip. He pulls off of Cas and collapses back into the tub where there's a nice cold pool of blood waiting for him. "My arm hurts," he groans and glances at the tear in his wound, and turns back just in time to catch Cas staring longingly at it. Dean knows that look. "You're not fixing my arm. You already used your grace to do whatever the hell you did to your fingers, you...fuckin' Lego piece."

"Dean, that's not insulting--"

"It's totally insulting," he laughs, sliding a hand back over the face Cas makes at him - a mix between a grin and a scowl. The hand finds the back of Cas's head and pulls him down so Dean can kiss the scowl out of his lips. "If I step on you-" Dean pauses to kiss him again. "-my foot hurts."

"Sounds like your something else hurts."

"You _have_  been around me too long."

They beam at each other, holding each other, skin to sticky skin. Cas sighs.

"I feel dirty," he complains, resting his cheek against Dean's shoulder.

"Well, you certainly ain't holy, golden boy," Dean retorts, hand massaging up Cas's smooth back, tracing into the valley where his spine is.

"No, I mean, I feel the need to shower."

"That's new," Dean says, but he pushes up, stands, and offers his hand to bring Cas up next to him. "Whadya say we close the door, restitch this stupid cut, get the gross blood out of the tub, and take a nice, warm shower."

"That sounds pleasant," Cas smiles up at Dean.

Yeah, Dean could get used to this.


End file.
